RussLiet Drabbles
by Sephielya J. Maxwell
Summary: A number of drabbles set to the pairing of Russia/Lithuania. So far there's 15, all above 100 words each.


Thank you Neheon-baby for this crazy list. XD So I asked my gf to write me a list of words, in order to get myself jump-started and writing again. So, she gave me a list. My goal was no less than 100 words per prompt, and well… I well surpassed that on some of these. I even felt like a few could have been whole fics, but they, I'm starting small!

Naughty

Toris surveyed the desk around him; a mess of crumpled papers, a toppled jar of ink that was staining the carpet drip by drip, as well as a few toppled trinkets. Heavy breath tickled his neck, prickling the heated skin there; the source of which still had his hands residing on the brunette's hips. Skirt—yes skirt, damn this maids dress—still rumpled up around his hips, though his stockings—damp as they were, still clung stubbornly to his thighs, one shoe had slipped off. Turning his face into the broad shoulder of the one above him, Toris thought to himself as he caught his breath; _there has _got _to be an easier way to get away with something…_

Jealous

Violet eyes could do nothing but watch the brunette smile so easily for another man, while his ears could do nothing but listen to him laugh so carelessly. Hands clutched at the porcelain cup as he sat in the living room, peer into the kitchen to watch _those _hands set atop the Lithuanian's shoulders as the other nation leaned close to him to peer over his shoulder at what was being cooked on the stove. It was a bad idea to visit—he'd known it was. He shouldn't have come here at all, but he'd wanted so badly to see for himself what he'd heard from others. Something cracked, and his hands were suddenly wet. Ivan stood up silently from his seat, leaving the broken cup behind, carelessly stained with a few drops of his own blood as he left Alfred's house without another word.

Obedient

Nothing that he did ever seemed to make a difference for very long. Never in his life had Ivan ever met someone with as much stubborn will as the Lithuanian. Oh, he could make him _behave _well enough. It was easy to do that much. To get a _yes sir, right away, I'll get right on that_! He could even get him to do things that he didn't want to do! It always brought a curious grin to his face whenever he thought of the maids dress, and of teaching the willful brunette to use Cyrillic. There was a difference, you see, between having control over someone… and making them _obedient. _It was something that the great nation of Russia and the man known as Ivan was still working on… slowly. And maybe, just maybe… He enjoyed the game of getting there. The day that Toris never resisted anything, well, that would be just boring wouldn't it?

Naive

Toris wasn't a fool—he knew the risk. He'd always known it. And yet as he lay alone in the swiftly cooling bed, watching the taller nation's back as he left with a promise to return, he couldn't help but think of how naïve he'd become over his absence. Every time he hoped for more, he instead got less. And when he expected nothing, he always got so much more than he could handle. He was always left wanting, wishing that someday things would be different, while at the same time knowing that they wouldn't. Covering his face with his hands, the brunette laughed at himself.

At the Beach

It was a dream that he never thought he'd accomplish, and yet here they were. He'd chosen to show his favorite first of course, and now he was rewarded with the sight of that beautiful skin kissed by the sun out in the open air instead of shining in from behind a cold pane of glass. Fingers traced the faint line of freshly healed scars on Toris' back as the brunette's head lay in his lap, nearly asleep. A small but honest smile crossed his pale lips. The wooden dock was wet and rough underneath his bare skin, but it was also incredibly _warm. _Port Arthur was almost too good to be true, and nothing could take this dream away now that he finally had it…

Disheveled

Toris nearly lost his breath as he was shoved up against the wall right in the entryway of his house. He'd barely gotten the door closed before he'd been accosted, for lack of a better word for it. Ivan's mouth was sealed over his own, and he groaned in complaint even as he returned the kiss. Hands were on his the front of his shirt, calloused fingers swiftly undoing his shirt—mindful of the buttons least the smaller nation give more than just a _sound_ of complaint. Toris' own hands moved to Ivan's shoulders, pushing the open coat from them easily. Fingers stopped on his right him, finding a wet spot. A break in the kiss for breath allowed him a glance, eyes widening at the sight of blood. "Feliks got me," Ivan nearly pouted. "He's on your land again." A surge of anger flooded the smaller nation, feeling an ache in his chest. Ivan was out there fighting with the strength that the brunette didn't have, and promising to protect his capitol. He should be out there too, but, how could he ever point a gun at Feliks…? "Toris," Wet, warm lips demanded his attention as Ivan placed a kiss to the side of his neck. "I won't let him take it, Toris. Your heart is mine… Right?" The hand sliding between his thighs caused a parting of the brunette's lips, eyes nearly closing as it settled between his legs. The only one who'd accepted his existence was the very one he'd escaped, and he even defended him against an old friend… What else was there to say? Let the Russian rejoin the fight later, satisfied and disheveled. Let there be no doubt as to what he'd been up to! It was petty, to use Ivan for revenge against Feliks like this… But then, he was sure the blond didn't mind in the least. Lips curled into a smile as he whispered his expected answer: "Yes."

Exhausted

Mud caked Ivan's boots as he searched another soggy tunnel, his large body cramped as tight as possible in this filthy hell-hole. Dirt was in his hair, under his nails, and sullying his clothes. His men had offered to go in for him of course, but could he let them? He had to lay hands on him first! Wood was warped and rotting already though, this hide out was old and abandoned! His fist slammed into a wall, causing a shudder to run throughout the entire underground structure. When he found the brunette, he was going to drag him out by his hair for making him go through all of this trouble just to find him! This game of hide and seek had gone on much too long, and it was well past time for him to come home! Slowly, a grin spread across his shadowed features. They still had more ground to cover before day was through, and they'd already caught a few of the so-called 'forest brothers', chasing them from their holes like hunting hounds to foxes. He wasn't finished yet—he'd find _his _fox soon. Now that the war with Germany was over, he had all the time in the world! And so he crawled out from the dank, dark tunnels with a chuckle, stretching his arms above his head as he waited for the next location to be found. He ached all over, but he couldn't stop yet. "Come out, come out, where ever you are Toris~." He sang quietly to himself.

Hold my Hand

The air was blisteringly cold, swirling around them in waves as if God himself was angry for this trespass. Blond hair was astray, hiding violet eyes but not the streams of silver that ran from them. The color was so pure, unlike the tainted snow beneath them. One would think that the heat would have melted it, but no. It stayed just as red, as brilliantly crimson and glittering as if the blood had just been shed. But it had already been an hour, and the stain was freezing right there on top of the snow as if it refused to go away, to be swept over and ignored like so many other massacres before it. And Ivan was sitting, huddled in the snow with piles of it on his shoulders as icicles hung from strands of his wind-swept hair. Toris removed his glove at last, kneeling in the mess and staining his knees as he touched Ivan's own bare hand. It was cold as marble, but he felt it twitch, very much alive. Slowly those long fingers closed around his own, neither of them speaking a word.

Keeping a secret

What would they think if they knew? Not the other nations, though they knew what _they _would think. No, it was their people they worried about. Their _children. _Surely some of them had known, right? But all that did were long gone, and this was a new era. Wars between them were almost more a generation past, but the scars were still all to present. Everything came and went for them; wars, treaties, promises, new bosses with new ideas… Only they remained alone. And it wasn't fair, was it? No one could stay alone for that long—it just wasn't possible. At first it seemed like love was a mercy for them, a way to pass their nearly unending lives, but it was quickly discovered to be more like a curse. The will of their people clashed, sometimes painfully, with their own again and again. If anything was going to ever tear them apart for good, it would not be war, but love.

Obsession

The domination of one's thoughts or feelings by a persistent idea, image, or desire… Compulsive, unwanted or unwarranted… A _need… _Ivan had many of such things as this. But the only one that ever made the Russian feel _good _was the one that was the hardest to obtain. His preoccupation for the oldest Baltic nation of his household was no secret; he never meant for it to be! As much as Toris would have preferred a bit of discretion, the blond took every moment that he could to use it to his own advantage. At some point the amusement that he got from seeing that pretty face troubled had become an obsession, though he couldn't place when or how. It was one of many, but to him, it was simply his favorite.

Nightmare

The taste of metal was stale in his dry mouth, and he knew that it was blood. The floor was cold and hard, and he couldn't even remember how long he'd been laying there. Everything was blurry, shapes and sounds distorted until they made no sense at all. One moment he could feel them as clear as day—the cutting lashes of the whip across his naked back, and the next he felt only a dull ache in the pit of his stomach that threatened to revolt at any moment. He tried to rouse the energy to move, to stand and become aware of his surroundings, but he found he couldn't move. There was laughter in his ears, but at first he didn't recognize it. It was a cold and hollow laughter, and it shook him to his very core. The sound alone could have rendered him motionless, but he really couldn't move! His body was damp with sweat even in the coldness, and his breath was coming short and fast. Dry lips opened for a scream, yet nothing came out. Suddenly there was a strong jolt to his shoulder, followed by a tight grip. He cried out then, feeling wetness on his face. He tried to say it—'Don't, stop! Let go, not like this!', but found himself still frustratingly silent. All at once the hand was gone, and he found one of his arms free. He lashed out as quickly as he could, feeling a jolt as it connected. It was only then that he felt the tight wrap around his body was made of cloth, the chill of the air uncovered by the sheet settling in. Shadows fell away as he opened his eyes slowly, looking first to where his fist had landed. "I-Ivan…" To his credit, the Russian looked just as surprised, glancing to the fist still at his shoulder before turning confused violet eyes on the smaller nation. The thing impending his movement had been the bed sheets—he'd wrapped them around himself in his sleep apparently. And the very one he'd dreamed about was here next to him, wearing such an expression… Toris felt his strength drain out of him, letting his arm fall back to the bed as he bowed his head. Ivan didn't ask any questions, he just gathered the smaller nation into his arms and held him close until he calmed, or exhausted himself with tears and returned to a more peaceful slumber.

Marks

Toris had heard a great many things about the scars on his back. The ones he was proud of seemed small in comparison to those—faded and by now almost completely gone. He had ones on his shoulders and arms from swords—now just slightly paler lines that you couldn't even feel. When he tanned even a little in the sun they vanished almost completely. There were small round ones from the bullets of the more recent wars, and though those still ached now and then they were faded too. But the scars of strictly Russian oppression, they alone somehow refused to fade. It had been a great many years since he had actually received them, and yet each lash seemed to take on a new meaning as their history played out. It was only these scars that other nations seemed to focus on. "That Ivan, he's terrible!", "How could he do that to you?", "He really is a monster.". Each time he heard them he always thought the same thing: _You don't understand. _He didn't say it anymore, because then he might actually have to explain… And that belonged to him and Ivan alone. He was the only one to touch _Ivan_'s scars, trace them with his fingers and kiss them with his lips. Burns from his brave tactics, old sword slices like the Lithuanian's own, and more often ones from bullets. But none of these scars were very important in the end. Not his; and not Ivan's. Because the marks that mattered most were the ones that lay _beneath _the skin. And it was only by laying hands on each other's outside marks, that they could soothe the ones on the inside.

Fear

Toris had faced a great many dire threats in his long life. An army of thousands intent on wiping his very existence from the map. All of them equipped with swords and shields, when he only had pitchforks and crudely made swords. Vastly outnumbered, he'd fought to victory tooth and nail with will and technique alone. And there were times that he had lost, too. When guns and brutality had claimed more lives than his heart could take, his children out there fighting _themselves _instead of together against the enemy. Foreign powers, promising him freedom and strength came, only to leave him in ruins again. And yet still, the small nation had never _feared _them. No, he'd faced each challenge head on and with a sense of stubborn will that would have been impossible to snuff out without a fight. So why…? Why was it that he felt it _now_, while staring up at the nation that he had come to love slowly fall apart? When those violet eyes turned cold and dull, and the full force of Ivan's anger came close to being released, it was all that he could do to pray that whatever happened… Ivan could live with himself when he witnessed the results of his absence of mind. Because in the end, Ivan feared _himself _more than Toris ever could.

Gun

Every word was a chance, every action even more dangerous. Toris had learned to backpedal furiously with words, until Ivan was so tired of hearing them that he simply accepted whatever the smaller nation said. But with actions, one wrong step could be called an act of insolence—or even treason, and no amount of talking could change his mind. There was only so much of the blonde's expression that the brunette had learned to read—even after well over a hundred years together. And if there was only one thing that he could tell you without a doubt, it was that you most certainly did _not _need a gun to play _Russian roulette _with Ivan.

And lastly I give you… XD

What the hell was that?

Toris woke with the unmistakable taste of alcohol in his mouth. He groaned before he ever opened his eyes, sitting up slowly and hissing as he found himself _also _unmistakably sore. It was late in the day judging by the light threatening to invade his closed eyes, head pounding with a dull ache already. He shivered in the chill that hung about the room, reaching with one hand for the blanket. What he felt instead was warm skin. There was a low groan, and only then did he open his tired eyes. Violet eyes met his own as Ivan seemed to wake about the same time, and the brunette glanced down to where his hand had laid. He jerked it back in surprise when he saw the mark it lay on. Was that a _welt_?! The Russian followed his gaze, raising one blond eyebrow in question as well. Ivan sat up to take a better look, and froze stock still when he felt an almost unfamiliar twinge of pain for himself. Toris looked positively scandalized at the accusing look tossed his way. The both of them seemed to be littered with marks across their skin, from welts to scratches or love-bites, and even a few light burns? A quick glance around only furthered their shock. Various items were scattered about the room, all of which only added to the collective pool of confusion. A few mostly melted candles—though there was one in particular which was suspiciously unscathed, Ivan's own belt, Ivan's _pipe, _a completely empty bottle of lube, an ice bucket with a bit of water in the bottom, a blindfold, a broken length of silk rope… And _more _than a few empty bottles of rather _good _vodka. Cautious glances towards each other seemed to look for answers that neither of them had right now. And they almost hoped they never did.


End file.
